Cast this air into the night.
Author these words for the wind.
Dream the dying dream.
Fore there is no war made with wind.
There is only this.
Red knuckles biting with hoar.
Thumbs dicking raw scabs.
Pink hands peeling from the web.
Fore the rose light soars this dreamflight.
But no war with light will ever piece this after flight.
in parentheses 
enter the discussion: